


no halo

by basementmixtape



Series: stozier songfics [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Crisis of Faith, Donald Uris is a Good Father, Fluff, Gay Richie Tozier, Gay Stanley Uris, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Madly In Love, Morning After, New Relationship, No Smut, Sexual Themes, Sexuality, Soft Boys, Stan and Richie are best friends, andrea is trying her best, coming-out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 22:02:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basementmixtape/pseuds/basementmixtape
Summary: “Do I matter? I'm ecstatic, I'm depressedMother, God's special mess, never had no haloTrippy, I can barely hike it out of bedTime bomb under it, persuading you to hop in”Stan and Richie deal with the aftermath of their first time together. Stan thinks God hates him for what they did, but he can’t stop being in love with his best friend, no matter how hard he tries.Inspired by No Halo by BROCKHAMPTON. Angst with some fluff.





	no halo

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy religious themes, if that’s triggering for you, do not read this fic. Homophobic slurs are used by the characters. They aren’t directed at them maliciously, but Stan and Richie both use the f-slur.

He woke up in the morning dazed and exhausted, warm in Richie's arms, he watched the dust in the warm winter sunlight, Elise curled around his mess of curly hair, tangled and black as bottled ink. He liked looking at him. In the soft light he looked angelic, just missing the halo, something Stan would never admit out loud. Richie was the opposite of an angel, Stan had bitten marks into his neck that proved it. He realized very suddenly how incriminating this would be, both of them covered in dark hickeys, Stan didn't even know if he could move. His legs would probably give out under him if he tried. He just curled into Richie's chest again, blinking hard. He didn't even know if he was gay, but their friends would arrive at their own conclusions, no matter what he said, they would build it into a version that fit the narrative they decided to construct. It was how they had always been.

"Morning," Richie's voice was thick with sleep, low and gravelly, it shot through Stan, consuming him completely, his blood singing, his face getting hot. _Definitely_ gay. He kissed his shoulder, rubbing a hand over a particularly nasty looking bite mark.

"Good morning, 'Chee." He made a strange sound in his throat, a raspy chuckle, reaching to his nightstand, lighting himself a cigarette, petting Elise, the top of her head, his big, clumsy hands so delicate. She slunk onto his chest, curling up again, letting out a long breath, curling around her. It was possibly the cutest thing Stan had ever seen. "You're helping me with physics today, once I remember how to stand."

"Oh fuck, why did I agree to do that again?" Stan shoved at him playfully, taking Elise off his chest to kiss her head, she blinked at him sleepily.

"Well, if you're still feeling hesitant I could pay you for your tutoring talents." Stan ran a fingertip down his forearm, wetting his bottom lip and looking at Richie from under his eyelashes, blinking the last shreds of exhaustion from his skull, watching his chest turn red, all the way up to his ears. "Maybe I could suck you off?" Richie's breath caught in his throat, and he choked on the cigarette smoke, coughing violently.

"I should've gotten you high years ago, Uris. You have no idea how long I’ve just been like, humiliatingly in love with you." He said, voice small, ragged. His eyes went wide, like he's had a sudden, disturbing revelation. "What time is it?" Stan turned over his wrist, checking his watch.

"Half-past Eleven. Why?"

"Shit!" He stood, and Stan tried not to blush, he was still naked, his pale ass entirely exposed when he started grabbing shit off the floor, getting dressed, it looked like. He threw a relatively clean looking shirt at Stan, one who never would've worn. Ever. Pale blue, patterned with red and pink flowers, the buttons on it were yellow. Stan looked at it was vague revulsion, but put it on anyway, partially because of how panicked Richie seemed in his underwear now, at least, a pair of boxers hit him in the head. He glared.

"What the fuck are you doing, Tozier?" Richie froze, turning slowly to the door.

Stan hadn't asked the question, after all.

"Fuck." He wasn't wearing his glasses, Stan noted. He probably couldn't see the expression of pure, unfiltered shock on Beverly's face, staring at him on the bed, then at Richie again, he still wasn't wearing a shirt, so nothing was hiding the marks Stan's mouth and hands had left all over him. He sighed, continuing to button up the hideous shirt, knowing he was red from ear to ear. "I should've set an alarm."

"Nothing you can do about it now, Dove." Richie's mouth fell open, his cheeks flaming red.

"I'm panicking right now, but that is the cutest fucking thing in the world and you're never allowed to call me anything else ever again." Stan rolled his eyes.

"Don't be a moron, finish getting dressed, asshole." He pulled on a t-shirt, turning, Bev's face going white when she saw the scratch marks down his back. Stan didn't really remember doing it, but they were raised and angry, like the bruises on his shoulders in the shape of his teeth.

"What- how long-?" Stan shimmied into the boxers under the blanket, standing shakily, fawn legs, weak from Richie basically fucking him into oblivion.

"Not long at all." Richie said absently, and Stan felt like he was being possessed, lips moving without his permission.

"Talking about your dick, Trashmouth?" He twisted his expression into forced confusion, and Richie turned to him slowly, apparently having found his glasses, black eyes huge and bug-like. His red face was split into a wide smile, eyes all dreamy, fixated on him completely.

"I think I'm in love." He said faintly, and Stan wanted to clock him. He smiled wider, able to see his furious face in sharp clarity now. "There's that murderous glare I know and love."

"I hate you." He said, glancing at Beverly, who looked even more confused. He picked up his pants, rumpled from spending the night tossed in a corner. "I should have folded these." He said mournfully, igniting Richie's bright laughter.

"Only you would get all pissy because I didn't let you stop in the middle of sex to _fold your goddamn slacks._" Stan put them on, catching his reflection in Richie's dirty mirror. He looked like a disaster, bruises all over his neck, hair a tousled mess, he had no idea what had happened to his yarmulke, he hadn't even thought of it when he kissed Richie, when he started all of this. The shirt was at least three sizes to large for him, he looked like he was in one of Richie's shitty bands, a guitarist or something, maybe. He didn't look like himself.

"Beep beep, Richie." He said, studying the hickey on his jaw. "My parents get home tonight, how do I get rid of these? I can't even cover this with a turtleneck." Bev seemed to snap out of her dazed shock, stepping to his side.

"What happened last night?" Richie was peeling off his pants and putting them on again, he had tried to pull them on backwards, and as endearing as it was, Stan wondered idly whether he had some form of permanent brain damage.

"Stan the Man got high with me, then we made out, then we fucked, and honestly, I'm in love. He's it for me, he’s fucked his way into my heart." His voice was soaked with sarcasm, and Stan felt his cheeks getting hot.

"It's been there for a while." He said quietly, Beverly was rummaging through her bag for something. "The feelings, or whatever you want to call them, it didn't just come out of nowhere, he's an idiot, and he's infuriating, but..." He glanced over, and Richie was already staring, always staring, it seemed. "I think it could work, if we try." His dark eyes were shining suspiciously, and fear shot through him, not real fear, just dull anticipation.

"How are your legs, Stanny?" He had that dangerous light behind his eyes, his lips curled expectantly.

"There's no way in hell I'm answering that question." He just smiled, a picture of serenity.

"Because, last night-"

"Beep beep, Richie. Don't subject poor Beverly to anymore of your vulgarity." Richie got in his space, and Stan felt all of his muscles tense, glancing at her reflection in the mirror behind them. Richie's hands found his waist, and he pressed a quick, soft kiss to his lips, gentle and slow, like the ones they had shared the night before, whispered into warm skin when Stan had been so exhausted he could barely find the energy to breathe. He clasped a hand onto Richie's forearm, locking him there, his other hand cradling his cheek. He leaned away, examining his familiar features, the freckles on his nose, his pink cheeks, those Coke-Bottle glasses, his pink lips. That heavy feeling flooded his chest, and his breath caught. He forced himself to turn away, running a hand over his bruises, panic climbing his chest, inside his throat, choking him.

"I hate you." Stan said again. And Richie smiled.

"I love you too, little bird." And he actually felt his heartbeat skip he was so overcome. Disgusting. Beverly handed him something pale and flesh coloured, in a cheap plastic bottle, a little blue lid on top.

"Here." She took the bottle, shook it, and pumped some into her hand, smearing it over his jaw. It wasn't a perfect match, but it covered the worst of it, hiding the dark black bruises enough that his parents probably wouldn't notice. He gathered his clothes, and went to the bathroom to get dressed properly, keeping the floral shirt folded at his side. He stepped out in his smart sweater, the foundation thankfully hadn’t rubbed on the the collar.

"I'm assuming she's here to get high?" Richie nodded, and smiled when Stan pulled him into a kiss. "I'm keeping this shirt, it smells like you. See you tonight, don’t forget." He turned before he could convince himself to stay, zipping up his coat and marching into the cold. It wasn't snowing, and the sunlight was clear and bright, catching tiny bits of ice in the air, glittering motes of dust. His parents car was in the driveway, his hair was still a mess, his lips swollen. He had been hoping he would get to clean up a little before they got home, but unfortunately, there they were.

He stepped in quietly, knowing he smelled of cigarettes and weed and makeup, he stuffed Richie's shirt in his coat pocket, and hung it in the closet. He could hear his parents voices, low and strange, and an unfamiliar voice. His uncle, probably. Now or never.

He made a break for it, trying to get from the foyer to the stairs without them seeing him, unfortunately, his mother had sharp eyes.

"Stanley?" He froze, turning slowly, wishing he had found his yarmulke, wishing he had fixed his hair at least. He didn't look like himself.

"Hello, mother." His voice was hoarse, probably from screaming. "Father." He looked at his dad, inclining his head, itching for retreat.

"Your uncle Fredrik decided to come visit with you here, I hope you don't mind." Stan glanced at the man, bearded and strange, in a sweater vest and wire rimmed glasses.

"Hello, uncle Fredrik." He took a step toward the stairs, and flinched when his father spoke.

"Where are you slinking off to? What's going on, Stanley?"

"Nothing, I just had a long night. Physics, you know." He was a bad liar, and his father knew it, raising an eyebrow.

"_Physics_, huh?" He nodded too quickly. "Well, at least give your mother a hug before you go upstairs, she missed you." He felt his chest get hot, anxiety flooding him. He crossed the room, stiff when his mother pulled him into her arms. She kissed his forehead, and leaned away, a strange light in her eyes, they were the same colour as his. Golden.

"You were with that Tozier boy, weren't you?" He felt like he may have been having a mild heart attack, unable to defend himself, words choking him. He shook his head. "Stan, baby, your hair smells like pot, cigarettes, and cinnamon. That's what the Tozier boy carries on him like perfume, what did we agree on?"

"That he wouldn't come here, and he didn't. I went there." A loophole, one he had talked around specifically for this situation. "Can I go upstairs?"

"Were you getting high?" His dads voice was tiny, dangerous. Stan knew there was no point in lying, so he steeled himself, and spoke, in his rasping, unfamiliar voice, stained by smoke and screams.

"Yes, I did, it's not a big deal, it was just pot. I'm going upstairs." He tidied the cassettes Richie always managed to knock over, and showered, changing into a turtleneck, rubbing makeup on his neck. He passed the hours listening to his parents voices, frantic and low, studying for physics, hardly able to focus at all. He heard his name, shouted downstairs, and tucked the flash cards neatly into his binder, walking downstairs too quickly. His mother was standing in at the door, murder in her eyes.

"Stanley, kindly explain to your... _friend_ why you can't go out today." Richie stood in the doorway, snow caught in his hair, on his glasses and eyelashes, still wearing his old coat, too big on him, his hands in the pockets. He hadn't covered up his hickeys with a scarf, the stood out against his pale skin like violent handprints, branding him.

"I actually need his help with physics, he's got an A+ in that class, and if I'm going to pass the exam I need someone to tutor me. He agreed."

"On the condition you remove the stick that's permanently lodged in your ass, little bird." Stan glared at him coldly, wondering for a moment how he could manage to be so stupid with the best grades in their year.

"Beep beep, Richie." He looked at his mother again, who looked hesitant. "He's got a trash mouth, but he's really smart, mom. I need him."

"Fine, leave the door open. Three inches." She was eyeing the marks on Richie's neck. "Don't think I haven't heard the rumours about you, Richard." Stan felt very suddenly as though the earth had swallowed him whole, anger cutting through him, hands curling into fists.

"He's not going to jump my bones just because Linda at the CVS calls him a queer." He felt like he was falling, drifting outside of himself. "Just in case you have any reservations, you shouldn’t know he already has. Fucked me, I mean." He heard his voice say faintly. "Who did you think did that to his neck? Some other random faggot for you to spit on?" His mother was gaping at him, he grabbed his coat out of the closet with numb hands, not even putting it on before he was standing in the doorway, impractical shoes on his feet. Sneakers.

"Stanley?" His mothers voice, watery and thick. She grabbed his wrist, and he fell back into his body, gasping, tears flooding his eyes. "Why are you saying these things?"

"I can just listen to you talk about him like that, he's my best friend." Richie was staring at him, still with snow in his hair, dark eyes full of a strange, fiery light. "If you hate him for being a queer, then you'll have to hate me for it too." He wrenched himself out of her grip, walking out the door, where Richie was standing, and grabbing his hand, looking over his shoulder. His dad and his poor uncle Fredrik were both staring dumbly, his father's face was a dark, foreboding shade of red, he was angry, maybe.

"Stan, are you alright?" Richie's voice was low and urgent, shutting the door behind him. His head was spinning, he sunk to the icy ground, and Richie sat beside him, holding him against his chest, tucking his face into his damp curls. "I'll take that as a no." He was warm, skin hot to the touch, eyes heavy on him, hands gently running over his skin. Richie leaned away, tugging the jacket Stan shoved over his arm, wrapping it around him tightly. He hadn't even realized he'd been shaking.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Don't be, you needed someone on your wavelength here when that shit went down." His hands were still so gentle. "We really should go, your dad looked about ready to murder me when you said- what did you say I did, jumped your bones?"

"I don't remember." He said, the world swooping and spinning around him. "Something like that, probably."

"Well, it was probably the second most badass thing I've ever seen you do." Richie kissed him on the cheek. "Can you stand?"

"What was the first?" Richie sighed, squinting through the water on his glasses, pulling him to his feet, staring the slow walk to his empty house. They walked stiffly, not fast enough.

"When you punched Belch Huggins in the throat for saying that Bill was diddling Georgie." A smile flickered over his lips, candlelight, weak and soft. "Or when you threw that rock and almost knocked Henry Bowers out cold. Your fist fight with Bill over whatever the hell you two are always fighting about was another contender, even though he knocked you the fuck out." The door to his house opened, his mother following them in a pair of his father's loafers, not even wearing a coat.

"When did this happen?" Stan felt like his blood had been replaced with ice-water, his mother's voice cutting through the snow like a knife, splitting the air like a gunshot.

"Well, Stanny here punched Belch in the throat about a month ago, and-" Richie's voice was nervous and bright, an anxious thing, twitchy and hot to the touch.

"No. When did you start..."

"Fucking?" Richie finished, and Stan clocked him, hitting the back of his head hard. He flinched, rubbing at it dramatically, shooting him small, apologetic smiles.

"I've been in love with Richie since I was twelve years old." He said, and as he spoke, the words seemed more and more true. "It was inevitable."

"You love this boy?" His mother asked, voice strange and choked, scared. "You're absolutely certain of it?"

"Of course I am," He felt like his throat was closing, his voice coming out a strange, foreign thing. "It's Richie." It was a fact, that he loved him. The sky was blue, the snow was white, and Stanley Uris was in love with Richie Tozier.

Her expression softened. "Can we talk about this? You can leave at any moment if you feel uncomfortable, or threatened or something, but Stanley," She didn't touch him, but she stepped closer. "We care about you, we love you more than anything, and this doesn't change that." He looked at Richie, who seemed very nervous, his dark eyes liquid and warm in the cold snow, black as a sky without stars.

"Yes. We can discuss it." He said stiffly, already falling back into his regular system, hiding things behind thick walls. The naked, ugly emotion he had shown in there felt entirely odd, like someone else had said the words on his lips. "As long as Richie can come."

-

They sat in the living room in a stiff, uncomfortable silence. His mother made tea, which Richie had promptly dumped about five sugars into, Stan cringing in disgust.

"That's horrific." Richie took a long sip that definitely burned his entire throat, smacking his lips and grinning.

"Not all of us were born with the taste buds of the elderly, Stan the Man." He rolled his eyes, taking a tiny sip, burning the tip of his tongue. Peppermint. She always made him peppermint when he was sick, it was comforting, warm and clear, like swallowing sunlight, or catching snowflakes on your tongue. It tasted like childhood. He looked anywhere but at _him_, his damp, messy curls did strange things to him, made his hands twitch and his heartbeat climb. He had changed out of his hastily thrown together mess of an outfit, wearing a t-shirt with an album cover, _Elton John_, a big flannel shirt, patterned with yellow plaid overtop. A very Richie outfit, he had worn it a million times, but for some reason, the idea of him dressing up, maybe struggling with his hair, agonizing between t-shirts for him was one of the sweetest things in the world. His dark jean-clad knee bumped against his when he reached for something on the coffee table, and Stan felt the point of contact like a frayed nerve, all consuming and violent.

"I do not-"

"Your favourite flavour of ice cream is fucking, like, _vanilla_ or something, you're basically a ninety year old retiree trapped in the body of a teenager. It's hilarious." Stan glared at him, sipping his tea and burning himself all over again.

"I hate you."

"No you don't." Richie said, a small, affectionate smile on his face, warm and sweet as his disgusting tea. Stan felt himself go red again, from ear to ear, heat blazing under his skin. He fixated on the sugar bowl on the coffee table, the delicate china his mother hardly ever used, taken out for Hanukkah, for weddings, for funerals. For him.

He gathered his courage, and looked his father in the eyes.

They didn't look very alike, him and his father, everyone always told him he was just like his mother, with his honey brown hair and his warm amber eyes, but he recognized himself in the way his hands were curled around the tea cup, in the dark, defensive emptiness in his eyes, in the set of his mouth and the slump of his shoulders. He looked sad. Not angry, or disappointed, sad. Scared, even worried, all adjectives he wouldn't normally use to describe his father. _Was he scared of him, or for him?_

"Do you want to talk about this?" Stan stared into his teacup, the swirls of colour, pale yellow, dark amber, his father's voice, the same dead tone he knew would leave his lips the moment they parted. Different from how he spoke to his friends, to Richie especially. He sounded alive when he was with him, he felt alive, like his blood ran hot in his veins for once.

"I think I have to." His voice didn't waver, not like his mothers did when she spoke.

"How long have you known?" He laughed, humourless and brittle, moving his fingertip to touch the thin side of the cup, it was hot enough it burned.

"I've always known, I used to have a crush on Bill when I was little, of course, he doesn't even know that. I think everyone falls a little in love with Bill, he's just- so-"

"_Good_, he's so good, he's strong, and kind, and gentle." Richie said, fiddling with his cup nervously. "You're right, it's like some kind of queer right of passage, falling in love with Bill Denbrough."

"So, you've always been, um, always been-"

"I've always been gay, mom." He said, hating himself a little when his voice broke, swallowing the bitter feeling, chasing it with a sip of peppermint, like the shots of vodka in the quarry, chased with sweet mouthfuls of warm lemonade. "You're allowed to say it."

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Stan felt white hot anger fill him up, so suddenly he almost dropped the tea. He put it on the table with shaking hands, cringing when it clattered against the little saucer.

"You think I wanted anyone to know? Do you understand how humiliating it is, to be the rabbi's son and to be like-like _this?_ Some kind of freak of nature, sinful and dirty just by existing, they already call me a faggot, a flamer, all of that shit, and you want me to tell them it's true?" He felt like something had snapped inside of him, like the floodgate had crumbled somewhere. "Everyone in this stupid town already hates us, if they knew about this they'd do worse than they do now, they wouldn't threaten me with knives, or beat the shit out of me, or knock me around, they would just fucking kill me. I would be dead, under the kissing bridge or something, and no one would even give a shit because I'm just a faggot, and I'm asking for it by breathing." He glared into the candle on the table, hands trembling in his lap. "I didn't want you to know, I didn't want anybody to know."

"You're being threatened?" His dads voice was low and deceptively calm, he was like him, his hands were shaking.

"They just knock me around, boys being boys or whatever, because I'm a Jew. They do it to all of us, Henry Bowers tried to carve his name into Ben's chest with his dad's switch, it was gruesome, that was the first day we met him, we had to hide him in the _sewers_-"

"Then when they found us you brained Bowers with a fucking rock." Richie glanced at him, eyes all bright and strange, the same way he looked when Stan called him pretty. "I still remember that, you had wicked aim, and I think it was the first time I heard you curse without mocking me. _Die, Fuckers!_" He mimicked, voice going all strange and hollow. He was eerily good at impressions, Stan wondered if that was how he always sounded.

"You just panicked, missed Belch, and got that lovely little scar." He still had a silvery scar there, cutting through his eyebrow. He was covered in little scars, especially on his legs, badly healed scrapes, cuts from climbing trees, from the time they'd broken into the abandoned house on Neibolt, and Eddie had fallen through the rotten floor, shattering his arm. Richie dropped down like a cat, and set it as best he could. They all had scars from that house. He had gotten trapped in a room on his own there, they had to kick down the door to get him out, Bill had found a well in the basement, and it gave off strange, dark energy that even Stan could feel. That place was cursed.

"Eddie patched me up, he said I was very brave." Stan snorted.

"He called you a pussy and asked how the only person in the Losers Club who played baseball had such shitty aim." His parents looked a little pale, and he realized why. Eddie had always been their favourite of his friends, mild mannered around them, polite and clean, with a habit of tidying up after the other Losers. "Then he punched you, because you were '_Being a fucking moron, that's why_'."

"Violence is how Eds shows affection, it was a loving punch." Stan stared at him incredulously.

"He gave you a black eye, Richie." He winked, knocking shoulders with him and giving him mild heart palpitations.

"So did Big Bill, I guess I just have a punchable face."

"Bill's the one with the punchable face." Stan said darkly, picking up his cup again, ignoring the tremor in his hands.

"Are you still fighting? What are you even arguing about now? It's been like, three months of this shit."

"He's an asshole." Richie swallowed more of his horrifying tea, smiling faintly.

"So am I, but you still keep me around."

"I don't even remember what he did if I'm honest, I just know he did something, and I'm _fucking_ _pissed_-"

"Jesus Christ, Stanley, just talk to him about it. Petty is not a good look on you."

"Yeah, how about you and Ben go kiss and make up then?" Richie's hands flew up, he spoke with them, the fingers on his left hand extended, he was used to holding cigarettes when he was ranting.

"We already did! That's why Beverly was in my room this morning, I apologized for being a dick like a real grownup and everything." Stan glared into his tea, looking up at his silent parents.

"We don't need to talk about this now." He said lowly, and Richie deflated, grabbing some kind of biscuit off the table, leaning back against the couch, his entire thigh pressed against Stan's, his free hand fidgeting with something, his lighter, he realized idly, a different one from yesterday, this one a dark purple, a little smiley face doodled on in sharpie, smearing on his fingertips.

"Are you and Richie... together?" His mom asked, watching them look at each other, communicating wordlessly, Stan's cheeks getting hot and bright when Richie tapped the smiley face, nodding a little.

"Yes." Stan said, feeling like his entire body was on fire, a heavy protective possessiveness coursing through him. "He's mine."

"Property of Stan the Man Uris." Richie laughed a little, fingers splayed over the arm of the couch, always moving, always buzzing with electricity. His lighter had apparently found its way back into his pocket, because his fingertips were absently ghosting over his neck, the violent bruises standing out like ink on white paper. "All I've ever wanted to be."

"Shut up, Richie." Stan's cheeks were probably crimson.

"It's true, you're it for me, Stan, I wasn't joking when I said that." He was so tender, vulnerable, more naked than he had been when they were inside of each other.

"I'm sorry I didn't take you seriously when you told me I'd fucked my way into your heart." He grumbled, and Richie made a small, strangled noise.

"Stanley, your parents look like they're having simultaneous heart attacks right now, please try to tone it down." Stan looked at his father, who's entire face was crimson, and his mother, her golden eyes so wide they could have rolled out of her head. His uncle Fredrik had been sent home, his father citing their current crisis and rushing him out the door before he could say goodbye.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Richie is my boyfriend, and my best friend, and I love him. A lot." He sat up straighter when a warm, dry hand wrapped around his, the simple contact making his head swim. "Too much, maybe."

"You're being safe, right?" His mother had a crease between her eyebrows, little lines she'd gotten over the past few years, crows feet at her eyes, from laughing too hard and smiling too wide. "You aren't doing anything that could... transmit-"

"We're very safe." He cut her off, swallowing the anger, she didn't understand, how could she understand? "Plus, we're both clean, mom. It's not like we've had a wide range of partners or something, neither of us have it. You understand how it works, right? There was a special about it on about a week ago." She shook her head, and he dropped Richie's hand. "It's like any STD, you have to catch it first, you don't just automatically get it from being gay and having sex, it passes through fluids, blood, semen, that kind of thing. We couldn't have it, it's not even possible." His father visibly relaxed, the tension in his mothers jaw easing.

"You're not dying anytime soon then?" Stan laughed, relief filling him to the brim. They were worried about him, worried because of the AIDS epidemic, worried because of _Freddie Mercury_, because of the lay in protests in Portland, all the gay men collapsing in the street, how many bodies the government was piling high, just because the disease was killing people they didn't want to save.

"Definitely not." He smiled into his teacup, it was pleasantly warm now, not scalding hot. "I just love a little different than I'm supposed to."

"We'll have to get used to it." His father was looking at him and Richie, _the Tozier boy_, dirty and dangerous and strange, with a lopsided smile and nothing but adoration in his eyes when he looked at his son. "But we love you, Stanley. I support your relationship with Richard, even if I don't understand, I care about you. If this is what makes you happy, then follow it, follow him, if you need to. _Love covereth all transgressions, _love is the basis of everything in this world, it's the guiding force of God, and He made you this way, to force this love away, to force you to change into someone you're not would go against His word. It would be _aveira_." Stan's eyes were stinging, he stood on his shaking legs, and pulled his father into a hug. They clung to each other, too tightly, both of them shaking, his dad was cold, like him, thin and tall. His lips pressed into his hairline, and he stepped away, cradling his face in his hands, wiping the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs.

"I thought you would hate me." Stan said quietly, his father's expression went soft, a smile making his eyes crinkle.

"I could never hate you, you're my son, Stanley. There's nothing in this world I love more than you." He laughed, and it was wet, and strange, oddly choked.

"I'm such an idiot."

"You were scared, it's not stupid to be scared of something like this, especially in a town like ours. We will keep you safe, and alive." His father said firmly, looking over his shoulder, eyes finding Richie, who was watching them with shining eyes. "Both of you."

"You don't have to-"

"If you and Stanley are together, you're family now too, Richard." His mother said, tucking a strand of greying brown hair behind her ear, crouching in front of him, careful and small. "I'm sorry for the things I said about you, they were wrong, and they came from a place of fear. You clearly love him, and that is the most beautiful thing in the world, above all else, loving someone purely for who they are is our purpose. It's why He made us in the first place, to love each other. I'm so sorry, Richard."

"It's alright." His voice was small. "I do love him, more than I've ever loved anyone. Ever. It's all warm and safe," He didn't look at him, staring at his own hands, nervous. "He feels like home."

"Christ, Rich, you can say sweet things like that to her, but the second I call you Dove and try to hold your hand it's like you have an aneurysm." Richie went bright red.

"I'm an anxious person." He rushed to defend himself, and Stan just smiled.

"I love you," He said, watching him turn even more red. "You idiot."

"I love you too, little bird." He pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, squeezing his hand.

His parents hugged them both, and Stan wasn't even all that embarrassed by his tears, feeling impossibly light, the weight of his secret, his struggle with his sexuality and his God, long ignored. Now that it was resolved, he felt happy. Genuinely happy. The feeling was so foreign he almost choked on it.


End file.
